


Light Will Keep Your Heart Beating in the Future

by chamel



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Dreams, False Memories, Getting Together, Hallucinations, Happy Ending, Illya POV, Illya Whump, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Sleep Deprivation, Torture, Unreliable Memories, entirely too many ocean metaphors about Napoleon's eyes, the torture is more not super violent but it is torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25879594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamel/pseuds/chamel
Summary: Time has lost all meaning, here.He has no idea how long he’s been held captive in this room. Days, at least. His captors have used a wide variety of techniques to prevent him from sleeping until reality begins to fracture around him. Illya has been subjected to a form of this before, during KGB training, but never to this extent. The only reason he is sure he has told them nothing is that they keep asking the same questions, but he lives in fear that he’ll say something during one of his less lucid moments. Wakeful dreaming is dangerous and impossible to control.(As Illya is subjected to extreme sleep deprivation, memories, fantasies, and reality blur together)
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 38
Kudos: 228





	Light Will Keep Your Heart Beating in the Future

**Author's Note:**

> I was watching the end of _Fargo_ season 3 and when Varga quoted the below Russian proverb/saying I knew immediately I had to write a Napollya story based on it. I'm a sucker for non-linear narratives, unreliable memories, and stories where reality isn't quite clear, but this is the first time I've written one. It ended up being one of my favorite stories to write, ever, so I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
> 
> The title of this work is taken from the song of the same name by Mike Doughty.

**_The future is certain; it is only the past that is unpredictable. — Russian Proverb_ **

Illya stands on the balcony of their hotel overlooking the Vltava River, his eyes closed as he lets the warm breeze wash over him. He doesn’t need to look to know the view: Prague Castle looms across the river, the spiky spires of St. Nicholas church already lit in orange lights above the pale castle walls as twilight is just beginning to fall. To the south, throngs of tourists cross Charles Bridge, camera flashes blinking as they stop to snap photos of the statues.

From within the room behind him he hears a low murmur of voices, the soft clink of ice in tumblers. His partners are relaxing after a long couple of days and a mission well-done. None of them escaped without bruises or blood, but they’re all in one piece, and no major injuries. Small victories, it sometimes feels like, when he knows that they will have little time to heal before the next mission. All the same, a warm feeling of pride flows through him: those tourists are safe, blissfully ignorant of the danger that had threatened them, all because of his team.

“Taking in the view, Peril?” Napoleon asks as he steps out to stand next to Illya.

Illya opens his eyes and takes in a different view: Napoleon rests his hands on the railing, balancing the glass of scotch, and smiles out into the growing darkness. It’s easy, relaxed, one of the private smiles that Illya knows are reserved for him and Gaby. There’s an abrasion on Napoleon’s cheek and the lingering impression of fingerprints on his elegant throat, but his eyes are bright.

“I always did like Prague,” Napoleon murmurs.

“Beautiful,” Illya replies, and for a moment he doesn’t know if he’s talking about the city or Napoleon.

Napoleon’s eyes flick over and lock with Illya’s, his smile widening into something more mischevious. He turns slightly to lean one elbow on the railing, facing Illya more fully now, and Illya has to direct his eyes down to the inky blackness of the river below them before he drowns in the blue sea of Napoleon’s. Heat radiates off Napoleon’s relaxed form, so close now, wrapping its tendrils around Illya and forcing the air from his lungs.

“There certainly are a lot of windows on that castle,” Napoleon says.

Thrown by the non-sequiter, Illya feels his eyes drawn back to his partner. Napoleon is looking out at the castle again, his face somber. Whatever had twined them together is ebbing away now, and Illya fights the urge to grasp blindly in an attempt to halt its departure. Instead, he lets his eyes follow Napoleon’s gaze.

“Better for defenestrations,” Illya comments dryly.

* * *

White hot pain crawls through every part of his body, exploding behind his eyelids, forcing a ragged gasp through his lips. It fades as quickly as it comes, and in its place a tingling sensation takes up residence under his skin, like the feeling of millions of crawling insects. He sags against his restraits, the pain of holding all his weight by his shoulders almost a relief in comparsion.

Abruptly the loud music that had been blaring over the speakers in the cell cuts off, and the silence almost does more to drag him back from the edge of unconciousness than the noise had. He forces his eyes open, squinting against the bright light, to see one of his captors open the door to his cell and slip inside. His vision blurs and shifts, and briefly there are two identical men stalking across the room toward him.

“Any new thoughts on your current situation, Mr. Ivanov?” the double man says, tilting his head as he eclipses Illya’s entire field of vision.

Illya’s mouth is dry, but somewhere he finds enough saliva to spit at the man. He watches with disappointment as the brownish-red blob hits the floor several feet from its target. How had his captor gotten so far away, so quickly?

“Who do you work for?” his captor asks, ignoring the limp gesture. “What have your partners done with the plans?”

The silence that fills the room is almost deafening to his sound-fatigued ears. Illya says nothing. Let them ask what they want; if they think this will break him, they are mistaken.

“I see. Well, perhaps I’ll visit again tomorrow.”

There is a clang as the door closes and the music blares again, loud enough to make him flinch. Illya tries to focus on his captor’s words, desperate for something grounding as the world spins around him.

 _Tomorrow_.

Time has lost all meaning, here.

He has no idea how long he’s been held captive in this room. Days, at least. His captorshave used a wide variety of techniques to prevent him from sleeping until reality begins to fracture around him. Illya has been subjected to a form of this before, during KGB training, but never to this extent. The only reason he is sure he has told them nothing is that they keep asking the same questions, but he lives in fear that he’ll say something during one of his less lucid moments. Wakeful dreaming is dangerous and impossible to control.

Illya sags against his restraints again, the pain in his shoulders a comforting constant. The light bleeds through his eyelids, but he closes his eyes anyway and silently prays for deliverance.

* * *

Napoleon’s laugh echoes in his ears in stereo, coming across his communicator at the same time as it carries across the crowded ballroom. Illya shifts slightly so that he can just see his partner’s dark hair where he stands, chatting with the Spanish minister and his wife. His carefully crafted platitudes are white noise in Illya’s ear as Illya surreptitiously scans the room for sign of their mark. The fact that he has not shown is disconcerting, but not too worrisome as of yet. The night is still young.

“Mr. Ivanov, I presume?” someone says next to him.

Illya schools his face into a mild smile and turns to see a rather squat man staring at him through narrow, beady eyes. Internally, he frowns. His cover name is not a secret, per se—it does grace his invitation to the gala, after all—but he doesn’t know why this man should know it.

“Indeed,” Illya says, nodding slightly toward the man. “You’ve caught me unprepared, I’m afraid.”

The man smiles, like that was the point, and it sends a icy finger of disquiet down Illya’s spine. Before he can consider it further, though, a pudgy hand extends toward his. “Charles Morgan.” Illya takes the proffered hand and squeezes it just tight enough, waiting patiently for the man to indicate the reason for this conversation. “My, that’s quite a grip on you,” Morgan chuckles, wringing his hands slightly as he withdraws them. “I’ve heard tell of your prowess with a rifle, Mr. Ivanov.”

It takes Illya half a beat to remember that Mr. Ivanov is supposed to be an avid big-game hunter, recently returned from a safari in Tanganyika. “Greatly exaggerated, I’m sure,” he demurs.

“You must tell me, did you manage an elephant on your recent expedition?”

“Unfortunately no,” Illya replies. He doesn’t elaborate further. Napoleon is still chatting inanely in his ear, but he hasn’t been able to look for the mark for several minutes now, nor check in with Gaby who must be nearby, and a familiar anxiety is creeping up his spine. Illya is usually forebidding enough to forestall most conversation attempts, but it appears Charles Morgan is not so easily deterred.

“A real shame, that,” Morgan says. “Next time, then.”  
  
“Are you a hunter, Mr. Morgan?” Illya finds himself asking for reasons he can’t quite articulate.

Morgan smiles at him predatorily, his dark eyes nothing but cruel. “Of a sort.”

Later, as they are fighting to escape the mark’s villa with the weapon plans, Illya sees that same smile just before he feels the unmistakable prick of a tranquilizer dart and the world goes dark.

* * *

The light reflecting off the canals sparkles on the ceiling of his hotel room, dancing in time to the _barcarolle_ of a gondolier. Illya knows it’s late, that they’ve slept far past the breakfast hours, but he can’t bring himself to care. Gaby will yell at them for ditching her, or perhaps not: part of this is, after all, her fault.

He lays slightly propped up on the pillows, one leg dangling half off the bed. The days are warm in Venice at this time of year, almost too warm for the the closeness of the body next to his in the bed, but Illya holds him tightly anyway, his long fingers combing gently through black curls.

He can tell the moment that Napoleon wakes: a subtle shift of his breathing, the slight contraction of his arm around Illya’s waist, the slow curl of his lips into a smile. Without opening his eyes, Napoleon starts kissing a trail from Illya’s chest up to his collarbone, nuzzling against his neck, pressing their bodies closer. Their skin sticks deliciously together in the growing heat, and Illya groans as Napoleon spends an inordinant amount of time focusing on the tender spot below his ear.

Napoleon’s blue eyes are sparkling when he pulls back to gaze at Illya, and Illya lets himself dive into the ocean of them, no longer fearful of drowning. It only lasts for a moment before Napoleon surges up to press their lips together, moving more fully on top of Illya. He feels Napoleon’s arousal press into his thigh, feels blood pooling down into his own groin, and doesn’t fight the low moan that grows in his throat.

The world slides sideways, somehow. Somewhere, deep within his mind, he knows this does not belong to any past of his. Somewhere, he knows that it is a dream wrought of delirium. Somewhere, he scrambles to not let it go.

* * *

A bucket of icy water slams into his face and chest, knocking the breath clear out of him. The room is frigidly cold, and the new addition of the ice water streaming down his body triggers uncontrollable, full-body tremors as he gasps for air that stings his lungs. The shaking seems to jostle his eyes open again, and for a moment he sees the Venice hotel room around him, incongruously warm. The door opens and a familiar form slips through.

“N–Nap–poleon?” Illya manages, teeth chattering.

His partner is wearing the tux he’d worn to the gala, and that is the first sign that something is wrong. Illya can still remember the bullet tearing its way past Napoleon’s upper arm, the bright bloom of blood on the white shirt visible through the rent in his jacket. He still remembers Napoleon’s lower lip splitting during the fight, dripping blood down onto his collar. The Napoleon that stands before him is immaculate, uninjured. He smiles predatorily, and an intense, wrenching shudder tears through Illya’s body, forcing his eyes closed. When he opens them again, the white walls of the cell glare back at him, and Napoleon has been replaced by his unnamed captor.

“Now _that_ is something,” the man says, too pleased. “Tell me, who is Napoleon?”

“Fuck you,” Illya growls out, enunciating each word with careful precision. This time he doesn’t bother trying to spit, not willing to waste the precious moisture.

His captor frowns, looking disappointed. “Someone you work for, perhaps,” he muses, watching Illya for a reaction. Illya holds his face carefully blank; it’s almost amusing that they think he might betray himself that way. But his captor continues, undeterred. “Or work with. A partner.” He pauses for a beat, staring intently. “Perhaps your lover.”

Briefly, the room warps around him, and he feels phantom lips on his neck, on his collarbone. Illya has to keep himself from scoffing at his own absurdity. That, at least, he knows is not real. Has never been real. He _knows_ this.

So why does he have to keep reminding himself of this fact?  
  


* * *

Illya stands on the balcony of their hotel overlooking the Vltava River, his eyes closed as he lets the warm breeze wash over him. He doesn’t need to look to know the view: Prague Castle looms across the river, the spiky spires of St. Nicholas church already lit in orange lights above the pale castle walls as twilight is just beginning to fall. To the south, throngs of tourists cross Charles Bridge, camera flashes blinking as they stop to snap photos of the statues.

From within the room behind him he hears a muffled crash and the clatter of something metal—gun, perhaps—hitting the glass coffee table. His partners are trying to decompress after a long couple of days and a disaster of a mission. Illya’s hands are bruised and bloody, and if his ribs aren’t cracked they are doing a very good imitation of it. His chest aches with every breath, but he knows he got off lightly. Gaby is nursing a likely broken ankle and a nasty puncture wound in her calf; Napoleon, well, Illya is not sure, but it’s not good.

As if summoned by his thoughts, his partner comes stumbling out onto the balcony at high speed, and Illya has to keep himself from grabbing Napoleon before he takes a dive over the railing. Napoleon catches himself and rebounds toward a small table, dropping a pair of tumblers hard enough that Illya is surprised they don’t crack. Bloody fingerprints mark the insides and out, washed away as Napoleon sloshes a generous portion of scotch into each one. Grabbing them, he presses one toward Illya at the same time as he nearly drains the second.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Cowboy?” Illya asks, eyeing Napoleon’s injuries. The injuries that he has, thus far, refused to let anyone look at.

“‘m fine, Peril,” Napoleon insists, a slight slur in his voice.

Dried blood still cakes the hair over his right eye. There’s a good chance he has a concussion after a hard blow to the head that had nearly stopped Illya’s heart when he heard the _crack_ across the room. Now, Illya can’t stop himself from reaching out toward the wound, fingers trembling ever so slightly.

Napoleon flinches away, turning to lean precariously on the railing and stare out at the inky black river below them. Illya can see him favoring his left arm, and he lets out a weary sigh. There is nothing to do when Napoleon gets like this except give him his space and watch him carefully to make sure he doesn’t make his injuries worse.

“I used to love Prague,” Napoleon croaks out. He sounds nothing short of heartbroken.

It can be difficult, seeing the beauty in a city again after everything goes to hell. Illya is pretty sure Napoleon will love Prague again, someday; it’s his kind of city, after all, full of art and history and beautiful women. Illya has to keep himself from staring directly at Napoleon, focusing instead on the rippling orange reflections in the river. The glass of scotch is warm in his hand and when he lifts it to his lips he can just taste the coppery tang of Napoleon’s blood past the sweet smokiness of the liquor.

“Why are there so many fucking windows on that castle?” Napoleon huffs.

Thrown by the non-sequiter, Illya feels his eyes drawn back to his partner. Napoleon is glaring across the river as if Prague Castle’s design is a personal affront to him. His head wound appears to be bleeding again, a single line of blood dripping like sweat down his temple. Illya lets himself inch closer, hoping Napoleon won’t notice, ready to grab him, just in case.

“Better for defenestrations,” Illya answers dryly.

* * *

“My, my, Peril, but don’t you cut a dashing figure tonight,” Napoleon grins, shooting his cuffs before adjusting the links there.

Illya grumbles to keep from blushing, fiercely ignoring the clench in his gut at the praise. He can’t help but feel awkward in the white-tie tuxedo, such a far cry from his usual attire. Napoleon, of course, wears the tux with aplomb, looking like he was born into it. Like Illya’s, it’s cut perfectly for him, but on Napoleon’s shoulders the coat has an easier, more natural line. Illya feels his mouth go slightly dry at the sight of him and trains his gaze anywhere else in the room.

Mercifully, Gaby sweeps into the room then, clad in a sparkling emerald green gown. She is breathtaking, and Illya briefly wonders if she won’t draw a bit too much attention. It’s rare that she doesn’t though, a fact that they often exploit.

“Well, good to know no one will be paying an mind to me and Peril tonight,” Napoleon says as he orbits her slowly, echoing Illya’s thoughts.

“Do try to keep it that way, Solo?” Gaby smirks back at him. “I know how you hate to share the limelight.”

Napoleon pretends to look affronted at this insinuation. “Only when I’m not trying to steal something.”

This is a lie, Illya thinks; Napoleon loves to be the center of attention even when he _is_ stealing things. But it shouldn’t matter. They have no reason to think that this mission will be complicated or particularly dangerous. Their intel says that their mark will attend the gala held by the Spanish minister, and they need only to determine the location of his villa, where the weapons plans are currently stored. Although word of the plans is getting around, they aren’t expecting other interested parties to show, nor much in the way of security at the villa.

In retrospect, that should have been the first sign that everything would go horribly wrong. In the moment, though, Illya chuckles as Gaby continues to rib Napoleon about the upcoming mission and feels a dangerous amount of warmth growing in his chest. These little, quiet moments have come to mean more to him than he ever thought possible.

They are what he finds himself lost in when he no longer can tell past from present, nor memory from fantasy.

* * *

“Where did your partners take the plans, Mr. Kuryakin?”

Illya finds himself wrenched back from unconciousness this time not by pain, but by fear. How did they get to this point? How did they know his name? What had he said, during his last bout of hallucinations?

“Who said we found them?” Illya forces himself to say.

The room is a blur in front of him. He recognizes the voice of his usual questioner, but someone else has joined him now, the voice oddly familiar. He can’t even be sure in his current state that the voice is really there, much less one he’s heard before. The headache that has taken up residence behind his eyes threatens to blind him completely, but he grinds his teeth and wills his bleary eyes to focus on the figures in front of him.

“You did, Mr. Kuryakin,” the second man says, suddenly very close to Illya’s face. Now that he’s close Illya can see the small, beady eyes set in a pudgy face, and he knows his stomach would turn if he wasn’t already living in a constant state of nausea.

“Morgan,” he growls. “What do you want.”

Morgan laughs, somehow too loudly even though Illya’s ears feel like they are stuffed with cotton from the constant loud music. “I thought that much was obvious. I don’t take kindly to having my business deals interrupted.”

Illya can vaguely remember that there weren’t supposed to be any buyers at the gala that night, but apparently that intel was faulty. If he can keep Morgan talking, maybe he can find out more about who he is or who he’s working for.

“You are hunter,” Illya says, his voice grinding in his throat. He hasn’t spoken this much in, well, he doesn’t really know. “What of.”

When Morgan speaks again he is far away, close to the door, and Illya senses his opportunity slipping away. “Unfortunately for you, I’m not the kind of person who will tell you all about myself just because I think you won’t remember,” he says tauntingly. “I think you’re a bit too lucid at the moment, Mr. Kuryakin.” Then, quieter, Illya hears Morgan tell his captor, “inform me when he starts rambling again.”

This is disastrous. Illya cannot stay here anymore, cannot put his team in any more danger. He yanks his hands against the bindings above him, but whatever is binding him is far too robust, especially in his current weakened state. He curses himself for not escaping earlier, but he can just remember that he _did_ try his hardest, struggled enough that his captors had to alter his bindings to something that wouldn’t cut into his wrists. Still, he has to do _something_ other than go delirious again.

He manages to struggle for some indeterminant amount of time before he feels consciousness starting to ebb from him again. A surge of panic courses through him at the realization, which keeps him alert for a few more minutes, but it’s useless.

Reality slips away again.

* * *

Illya stands on the balcony of their hotel overlooking the Vltava River, his eyes closed as he lets the warm breeze wash over him. He doesn’t need to look to know the view: Prague Castle looms across the river, the spiky spires of St. Nicholas church already lit in orange lights above the pale castle walls as twilight is just beginning to fall. To the south, throngs of tourists cross Charles Bridge, camera flashes blinking as they stop to snap photos of the statues.

From within the room behind him he hears laughter—Gaby’s high-pitched giggle, Napoleon’s chuckling baritone—over the sound of the record Gaby put on the phonograph. He can picture her pulling Napoleon around the room, trying to dance to music that isn’t quite danceable. They’ll have pushed the coffee table off to the side, likely upsetting several of his chess pieces, but it’s no matter. The team will be departing in the morning anyway, following their mark to Budapest where he will try to sell the intel.

After the song changes he hears a soft step behind him and knows Napoleon is approaching. Illya expects to see his partner out of the corner of his eye in a moment, standing next to him on the balcony, glass of scotch in hand. Instead, he hears the tumbler clink softly against the table and suddenly Napoleon’s body is very close, almost pressing into his back.

“That can’t be a great view, Cowboy,” Illya says wryly, trying to ignore the way his heart is racing.

“Depends on what you want a view of, Peril,” Napoleon murmurs, low and throaty.

Illya can’t quite suppress the tremble that shoots through him, then. Napoleon raises his hand to rest on Illya’s forearm, sliding it down to rest over his hand where it grips the railing, a touch more tightly than before. They stand there for a moment until Napoleon apparently gets impatient and wraps his fingers down to pry Illya’s off the rail. Illya could stop it easily, but he doesn’t. He lets Napoleon take his hand and spin him around so that their chests are nearly touching, so that suddenly all the air that Illya is breathing is full of the heady scent of Napoleon: pomade and cologne and the fruity, smoky scent of the scotch on his breath.

There is hardly any space behind him but Napoleon steps forward anyway, pressing Illya back against the railing. Illya’s hands clamp tightly to the wrought iron barrier on either side of his hips, knuckles going white, because he knows if he lets himself touch Napoleon he won’t be able to stop.

“What do you think of Prague?” Napoleon asks, his face achingly close to Illya’s, lips practically brushing the corner of his mouth.

“It’s beautiful,” Illya breathes. He’s not looking at Prague, though, instead finding himself utterly fixated upon the splotch of brown in Napoleon’s left eye. An island in a stormy sea, rendered into a narrow spit of land by dilated pupils.

Then Illya is set adrift again because Napoleon leans in to brush his lips against the curve of Illya’s ear and whisper, “indeed,” before moving to press those same soft lips onto his neck.

Illya’s eyelids flutter shut and he feels his breaths ragged in his throat, more overwhelmed by the feather-light kisses that Napoleon is trailing across his skin than he could have ever thought possible. Aching desire pools low and hot in his abdomen and he wants Napoleon’s lips on his more than anything in the world right now, but his partner seems to be in no rush. Illya knows that he is moments away from combing his fingers into Napoleon’s thick hair and forcing the issue, but he doesn’t get the chance.

“Why do you think there are so many windows on that castle?” Gaby asks from the doorway.

Illya looks up sharply at her. She’s still wearing the bright orange Rabanne shift dress even though usually she would have changed into pajamas by now, her large white sunglasses still perched on top of her head. Her gaze is fixed off across the river, not wavering toward where her two partners stand to the side. There is a knowning, slightly smug grin on her lips, though, that says she is aware of exactly what she was interrupting and is completely unrepentant. Illya sighs, but he can’t feel anything but fond.

“Big fans of natural light?” Napoleon offers, smirking as he pushes away from Illya and turns to swipe his scotch from where it sits on the table nearby. Even though the evening is warm, the air that takes the place of Napoleon’s smoldering body heat is like an icy blast to his front.

Illya turns back toward the river, trying to push his breathing and heart rate into some sense of normality through sheer force of will.

“Better for defenestrations,” he comments dryly.

* * *

He doesn’t even remember getting doused with ice water, but the evidence is incontrovertible as it drips down his chest and onto the floor below him, pooling around his feet. No, this time it takes an open-handed slap to bring him back to reality, or as near to it as his shattered mind will allow. The room is less cold, he thinks, or maybe he’s just losing the ability to tell. His lips feel numb as he licks the water off of them, so probably the latter.

“Your friends have arrived,” his captor leers, too close to Illya’s face for him to focus properly. The scent of cheap cologne and gun oil threatens to choke him, filling his lungs until Illya can only cough in reply. “So glad they could finally join us. I know Mr. Morgan is looking forward to speaking with them.”

“Good,” Illya wheezes, sneering with as much venom as he can muster, “they will want to speak to him, too.”

Really, he thinks Napoleon will not be so interested in _speaking_ to Morgan, but the man has seemingly managed to fly under UNCLE’s radar for this long, so despite everything Illya hopes his partner leaves Morgan alive for questioning.

His torturer, however, can die a painful death as far as Illya is concerned. The man laughs, swaying even closer, and Illya sees a narrow chance. Rocking back quickly, he slams his head into the man’s face and feels a satisfying crunch of bone. His captor stumbles backward, clutching his hands to his face as blood pours down his front. It feels good, doing _something_ for the first time in days, even if Illya knows that the retaliation will not be pretty. There’s always the slim chance that they will decide that Illya is not worth keeping alive, but he’s reasonably sure that they won’t kill him right away, and he hopes desperately that the stunt will keep his captor’s attention on him and off his approaching partners.

The man lurches across the room toward the steel table containing an array of items that Illya has become familiar with during his captivity. Most are merely controllers for things like the music, lights, temperature, and the electricity they pump through his body occasionally to keep him awake. The bucket for water also typically is kept there, although currently it lies discarded on the floor near him after its earlier failure. He’s also spotted a few more traditional torture implements, but thus far his captor has not wielded them.

Now, Illya watches as the man’s hand closes around a narrow steel pipe: simple, but effective. Blood is still streaming freely from his shattered nose, but there is a vicious glint in his eye and—more disconcertingly—a gruesome, bloody smile on his face. Briefly, Illya considers the possibility that Morgan had been holding the man back from doing any real external damage, and now, with the facility under attack, all of that has gone out the window. He can just hear the _pop pop_ of gunfire in the distance and getting closer, so clearly Napoleon and Gaby are still at large.

“You’re going to be sorry you did that,” his captor promises as he returns to stand in front of Illya. He hefts the pipe a few times, considering it’s weight and balance, and trails his eyes over Illya’s exposed body as if thoughtfully choosing the best target.

The absurd thought occurs to Illya that he might actually prefer to be hit in the head, might prefer the blessed, total unconciousness that would follow. It would be a stupid move, though, and unfortunately his torturer does not seem to be stupid. At the moment he is watching Illya’s body variably tense and relax in a vain attempt to prepare for the blow, clearly waiting for just the right moment when his guard is most down.

He waits until Illya’s eyes are fluttering closed in exhaustion again, but honestly he needn’t have bothered: Illya’s reaction times are so slow and his body so exhausted that he doubts he’d be able to prepare anyway.

He waits too long.

The next thing Illya knows his shoulders are screaming in pain because for the first time in who knows how long they are _moving_. He feels strong arms and a solid body catch him around the chest when he slumps as his hands are freed from the restraints above his head. The scent of cologne, pomade, and adrenaline-laced sweat fills his nose and his eyelids flutter, but he can’t seem to make them stay open. The voices calling his name seem to be coming from a great distance, and he sighs heavily.

He knows it is a dream, a hallucination, nothing more, and soon the blows from the pipe will drag him back to reality, but for now he allows his body to relax in the phantom arms of his partner.

* * *

For a long time there is only darkness. He wakes up, once, not quite believing that he has actually _woken_ from anything and that he is not hallucinating his own sleep. But the starched white sheets feel so real under his hands, and the sucking ache of fatigue in his bones has a different character, and he almost allows himself to believe it is true.

The room is dark, and before consciousness slips away from him again he sees Napoleon slumped in a chair next to him, snoring softly. His hair is a mess, his suit dirty and crumpled.

 _Huh_ , he thinks, distantly. If this is a hallucination, it is entirely novel.

* * *

Illya stands on the balcony of their hotel overlooking the Grand Canal, watching gondoliers pole their way lazily through the muddy water. The air of the summer afternoon is humid and warm, and though Illya is not usually one for heat, in this moment he revels in the feel of it filling his lungs. It is the first time he has been to Venice, and the briney, earthy aroma of the lagoon that hangs on the air is unlike anything he has ever imagined.

 _This is real_ , he thinks. Sometimes he still isn’t sure, but now, here, he is.

When Napoleon had suggested Venice as a location for the holiday that Waverly was sending them on, Illya had not remembered the dream. It wasn’t until he’d stepped into the hotel room that it had slammed back into his head, a sudden sense of impossible deja vu. He’d stumbled a moment, caught completely off guard by the memory, and Napoleon had caught his elbow protectively. This had, of course, caused Illya to flinch away; the sense of his own lingering weakness and the after effects of the torture—when he still fell asleep places he had no business feeling so comfortable in—were increasingly irritating to him, even though the doctors had said it would be weeks before his sleep cycles would approach something that could be called normal.

For his part, Napoleon had barely let Illya out of his sight since the rescue; or, at least, whenever Illya was awake to see him, Napoleon was there, watching. The dark circles under his eyes didn’t fade, and Illya had a suspicion that Napoleon was, ironically, depriving himself of sleep so that he could make sure Illya’s slumber went undisturbed.

He isn’t surprised, then, when he hears the soft click of the door and the quiet tread of Napoleon’s footfalls behind him. He should be annoyed that his partner didn’t knock, but then again he hadn’t locked the door to his room, and he knows that is practically as good as an open invitation where Napoleon is concerned.

“You’re awake,” Napoleon says as he steps out onto the balcony next to Illya. He’s carefully put-together as usual, not a hair or thread out of place, the shadows under his eyes the only sign that something is amiss.

Illya shrugs nonchalantly. “Not tired.” The amazing part is that he’s _not_ , he’s finally able to spend the daylight hours awake, even if he still sleeps far more at night than usual.

They stand there in companionable silence for several minutes, long enough that Illya wonders if Napoleon is the one who has fallen asleep on his feet. It’s either that, or he’s thinking overhard about what he wants to say, and neither seem to be great options to Illya.

“I was going to get us reservations at this delightful trattoria a few canals over,” he says eventually, “but Gaby suggested we stay in tonight.”

Illya suppresses a sigh. He doesn’t need both of his partners coddling him, and he’s about to open his mouth to say so when he catches sight of Napoleon out of the corner of his eye. The barest hint of a flush has crept out over the collar of his shirt, hardly noticable except for the fact that Illya has never quite seen something like that on Napoleon. He would put it down to the heat, except that now that he’s paying attention his partner seems more fidgety than usual.

“And where is chop shop girl?” Illya asks suspiciously.

“She’s… out,” Napoleon answers, an odd tone to his voice that Illya can’t read. He flashes Illya a quick grin. “I think she meant that, ah, the two of _us_ should stay in tonight.”

“Oh,” Illya replies, because what else do you say to that? The most likely explanation is that Gaby has merely noticed Napoleon’s fatigue as well, and would rather that both of her partners catch up on their sleep rather than be dead weights on her evening out. Certainly not that she has seen something that neither of them has dared to admit and this is her version of a gentle nudge. He lets the silence stretch for a few more minutes before he speaks, and when he does the words are almost a surprise. “I dreamed of this place. This room. When I was…” He makes a small gesture with his hand, leaving the rest unsaid.

Napoleon cocks an eyebrow at that, turning to face Illya. “I thought you hadn’t—”

“I have not,” Illya answers before he finishes. “First time in Venice.”

“Well, I hope it was a good dream. I did choose this hotel, after all, and I’d hate to think it was nightmare fuel.”

“It was good,” Illya says, letting a smile spread slowly across his lips. He finally turns away from the canal to face his partner, remembering the feel of Napoleon’s lips on his sticky skin, and takes a step that leaves little space between them. “We woke up in that bed.”

It feels like a leap into nothingness, and it doesn’t. He knows all the things that happened in his mind—part memory, part dream, part hallucination—weren’t real, but they _feel_ real despite that, even now. It’s possible he’s off the mark, that Napoleon doesn’t reciprocate his feelings, and opening himself up like this is mildly terrifying, but the combination of emotions that flit in quick succession across Napoleon’s face as he realizes what Illya has just said is entirely worth it.

“I, uh— _we_?” Napoleon stammers, and Illya can’t help that his smile gets wider, because seeing _Napoleon_ like this—unflappable, unerringly composed Napoleon, actually _flustered_ —is utterly endearing.

“Mmm,” Illya hums in confirmation, letting his eyes stray to the bed in question through the balcony door. It’s only a few moments before Napoleon can’t help but glance back at it too, and Illya watches with perhaps a bit too much hunger as his throat bobs in a hard swallow. “We could… make it real.”

Napoleon looks back at him then, disbelief written plainly on his face along with an unmistakable but tentative hope. His eyes are slightly wide as he stares up at Illya, clearly exposing the patch of brown amongst the blue, and Illya allows himself to succumb to them in a way he’s only ever done in his dreams. It feels only natural to raise his hand to gently cup Napoleon’s jaw, to let his thumb trail lightly across his cheek.

Below them, a gondolier bursts into song, a slow and lyrical and melancholy tune that Illya doesn’t recognize. He doesn’t miss the way that Napoleon reacts, though; he clearly knows the song, and it seems to trigger something within him.

“Well, that’s it, then,” Napoleon says, nonsensically, then surges up to capture Illya’s lips with his own.

The feeling of Napoleon’s mouth on his is somehow both familiar and not, all at once, and there is a flickering sense of unreality that this is happening. It is gone beforepanic can find him, though, lost amongst Napoleon’s eager kisses as he pulls Illya tight against him, solid and tangible in his arms. The sounds of the canal fall away, and all that is left is Illya and Napoleon and the gondolier’s dulcet tenor, binding them togther.

* * *

Illya wakes in the middle of the night and finds Napoleon awake in the bed next to him, watching. Moonlight filtering in through the curtains reflects in his darkened eyes, and it takes Illya’s sleep-fogged mind a minute to work out where they are and what had happened the previous evening.

“Please tell me you’re not watching me sleep, Cowboy,” he sighs, dragging a hand over his face. “You need sleep too.”

“I’m not,” Napoleon protests, but it’s clearly a lie, and he huffs. “I mean, I haven’t been for long. I just woke up. Why are you awake?”

Illya shrugs. “I don’t know. Just woke. You?”  
  
“Same.”

Illya reaches out, beckoning Napoleon closer, and he obliges. The night is cool but Napoleon’s body is warm were he presses up along Illya’s flank, tucking his head into the hollow between Illya’s chest and shoulder. As Illya’s arm tightens around him Napoleon makes a small contented noise, and that contentment seems to find its way into Illya’s bones to bloom there with a sublime warmth. He turns his head to press a kiss to the top of his partner’s head, breathing in deeply.

“Sleep,” he whispers, as much to himself as Napoleon. The command seems to work like a spell, because he feels unconsciousness tugging on him rapidly back under, and he lets it without reservation.

He has a pretty good idea what will happen when they wake up again.

**Author's Note:**

> A few endnotes!  
> 1\. I did a lot of reading about sleep deprivation as torture for this fic, and holy god that is disturbing. I also found out it was a favorite interrogation technique of the Soviets and KGB, hence why Illya would be familiar with it. After a certain amount of time subjects begin to hallucinate wildly, hypothesized to be a kind of wakeful dreaming. It is nearly impossible to prevent the subject from falling into "microsleeps", short periods of unconciousness that do little to heal the brain.  
> 2\. Prague has a history of [defenestrations](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Defenestrations_of_Prague), aka throwing people out windows.  
> 3\. A little bit of trivia for you, this fic takes place before 29 October 1964, because that's when Tanganyika became Tanzania.  
> 4\. A [barcarolle](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barcarolle) is a traditional folk song sung by Venetian gondoliers.  
> 5\. Yes, the song at the end is the one you think it is, _Che Vuole Questa Musica Stasera_ , aka the song playing in the truck during the movie while Napoleon eats a sandwich and makes the decision to save Illya.
> 
> Now featuring beautiful art from RainbowLily! [Check it out!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28181289)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and thank you to everyone for welcoming me to the fandom on my previous fic. Your comments mean so so much to me, I'd love to hear what you think of the work!


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